“And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in your possession?”
“About fifteen hundred.”
“And how did you obtain them?” I demanded.
“Without much labour,” said the old man, “in the neighbouring towns and villages—chiefly at auctions—of which, about twenty years ago, there were many in these parts.”
“And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to the crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at your disposal?”
“The inscriptions enable me to pass my time,” said the old man; “what more would the whole literature of China do?”
“And from these inscriptions,” said I, “what a book it is in your power to make, whenever so disposed. ‘Translations from the crockery literature of China.’ Such a book would be sure to take; even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it.” The old man smiled. “I have no desire for literary distinction,” said he; “no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in easy, quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed in my wish; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity in this life; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. To escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese. By degrees the misery left my head, but the desolation of the heart yet remains.”
“Be of good cheer,” said I; “through the instrumentality of this affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to practise the duties of hospitality. Who but a man who could read Runes on a teapot, would have received an unfortunate wayfarer as you have received me?”
“Well,” said the old man, “let us hope that all is for the best. I am by nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, should, perhaps, have hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to my fellow-creatures. I am very, very indolent,” said he, slightly glancing towards the clock; “therefore let us hope that all is for the best; but, oh! these trials, they are very hard to bear.”